Going Sherlocking
by Diana Holland
Summary: When Molly Hooper's salary at St. Bart's gets cut, she knows she's going to have to get a second job to keep her flat. With John dating Mary, Sherlock knows it's only a matter of time before he loses him as his skull completely. What will ensue when Sherlock offers to hire Molly as his assistant? Rated M only because I'm paranoid-wouldn't want to ambush the unsuspecting public.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is my first fanfic in quite some time, so I hope it's up to snuff. Even if I did own Sherlock I'm not sure what I'd do with him. Reviews always welcome, enjoy!

Chapter 1.

Molly Hooper struggled to reach the counter with a tray of blood samples and two petri dishes containing an unidentified bodily fluid. The sleeve of her lab coat snagged on the cabinet handle and the tray went lopsided and slid to the floor, clattering. Leaving the tray on the floor and walking around the puddles, she marched to the counter, picked up a pen and threw it against the wall of refrigerators. Letting all the tension of the past week out, Molly screamed a long, guttural scream. She thought she was alone, but after she inhaled and exhaled deeply she spun around to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

"Molly, may I ask what caused you to throw a pen at a wall of deceased and scream?" A blush plumed on her cheeks and she looked down at the floor. Not at all professional, leaving part of a patient down there like that, but the toll of the week had made her ability to care disappear.

"Why ask? Y-you know. You always know." He had pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and now he slipped it back into his coat to look around the room. She took the opportunity to stare at him. He was a wall of stone when he observed; nothing outgoing while everything went in. He was so fascinating… Even though she knew it was a hopeless attraction, she just couldn't help herself. He stretched his shoulders back and kinked his neck to the right, not realizing how perfectly the movement complimented his chest through the tight black shirt. He returned his gaze back to her, still observing, then his eyes unfocused, "No."

"It's been a rough week." She said, spinning paper towels from the dispenser. He rolled his eyes.

"Molly. The bags under your eyes- though alleviated by makeup, the haphazard stacks of paperwork on your normally tidy desk, the near-empty bottle of Mountain Dew and the fact that your hair is not only held up, but back by a headband told me that. That isn't what I asked."

She laid one hand on the counter and placed the other one on her hip. "The hospital is undergoing a building-wide salary reduction, which means that the flat I've been living in for the past two years is no longer in my budget. I've sent out a resume and while everyone I've talked to has responded very kindly, none of the other metro hospitals are hiring for their morgues right now."

"Hmm." He said. Even a _hmm_ sounded good in his voice. She wondered briefly if that wasn't what God's voice sounded like and then shook the thought from her mind. God's voice had to sound better-and if it did she couldn't wait to die. He had brought samples of shoe leather with him and started to examine them under the microscope. She began to clean up the mess and, while not faced with his paralyzing face or voice directly, she began to feel angry. She was tired of his questions which seemed sincere initially, but which were really always intended to discern whether or not her emotional state would affect his ability to work. Why'd he have to be so damned unconcerned? Picking up the petri dishes and broken glass with gloved hands, she stood to throw them away, only to come face to face with him.

"Oh!" She gasped.

"Molly, I think I might have a solution to your problem that would be of mutual benefit."

"Do you think you could maybe not do that?" She asked, throwing the glass into the bin.

His brows furrowed and his eyes were at once quizzical and gorgeous. "Do what?"

"Sneak up on people like that. You don't make any noise, you know."

He sighed, and she thought she could detect a suppressed eye-roll. "Why does that bother everyone? I wouldn't be much use in my field if I weren't discreet."

There it was; she knew it had been coming; another mysterious little statement that made her wonder even more about what he did when he wasn't in the morgue. Did he know what he was doing to her?

She tried not to make the question sound jealous, "Who's everyone?" In an effort to appear nonchalant she took a swig of her Mountain Dew.

"John and Mrs. Hudson! They're always nagging me about it. That and the fingers in the fridge. About your dilemma-there are some things that John can't help me with, some things that sensitive as John is, need a woman's approach. Maybe you could help me with them?"

This ill-timed comment made her choke and sputter. Sherlock, viewing the projection of liquid with open disgust said, "Then again, maybe John will do."

"No, I was just thinking about something. Sorry. What things?"

He paused, "As you know I 'delete' any knowledge that isn't useful to me and therefore I sometimes lack the ability to interpret the motives of others. I also need a second pair of eyes for undercover and escort duties lately. Apparently John isn't too keen on the idea of escorting me places with _her_ around. Seems to think three people can't go on a date."

She shook her head, grinning, "Especially not when it's always somewhere you want to go." She murmured.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Sherlock, nice as your offer is, I can't work for free. I don't see the mutual benefit to this."

"No, no, silly git. I'll pay you up to what is being skimmed off your salary, depending on the amount of days you can assist me and you can continue to live in your flat." Her mouth hung open; he didn't appear to be joking.

"But you don't pay John for assisting you."

He smirked, "That's because he'll do it for free. Our little secret." Sherlock Holmes was seriously offering her employment. The thought was both tantalizing and frightening at the same time. She could hardly keep a grip on her life as it was, seeing him only at St. Bart's-how would seeing him more frequently affect her sanity? A glance at those eyes and her mind was made up. "I'll do it."

"Good. I'll text you when I need you." He said and put his coat on-a work of art in itself. She'd been tempted on many an occasion to ask him where he'd bought it. He walked towards the door.

"Sherlock!"

He paused but didn't turn, "Yes?"

"I can't work for you during the day. At least not during my shifts here."

"You already do." He disappeared beyond the frosted glass doors and she exhaled. What did she just get herself into?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I want to give a huge shout out to all my wonderful followers and reviewers! Without your encouragement this chapter would not have made it out so soon, so thanks to lvPayne, varjaks, Rocking the Redhead, Doctor WTF, Nocturnias, Dasumi, Zora Arian and finally the Anon Brit who pointed out a cultural error-thank you so much! I really do aim for authenticity, so if spot anything else please let me know. Enjoy. **

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**Chapter 2.**

The night after Sherlock offered her the job he texted her at 11:14 p.m.

Meet me at 4678 E. Burton St. Take a cab and get off at the Brighton Office building.-SH

She changed out of her pajamas and ran a brush through her hair before leaving the apartment. The Brighton building appeared to be closed for the night, so she texted him back.

It's closed. How do I get in?-M

She received no reply, but a doorman emerged from the shadows and opened the door. He was handsome, though very unlike Sherlock. He had dark skin and a happy manner.

"He's waiting for you upstairs, room 515, Molly."

"How do you know my…never mind." Sherlock must have mentioned it to him. He nodded and motioned towards the elevator. Room 515 was a conference room with a twenty foot table in the middle. The chairs had all been moved to the interior wall, leaving a clear view from the conference table to the street below and the two apartment complexes across the street. Sherlock was lying face down on the table, elbows propping up his binoculars. When he heard her enter he held up a second pair for her. When she paused he sighed and patted the table.

"Come on then."

With as much grace as she could muster she slid onto the table and got within an arm's length of him. "W-what are we doing here?" She asked.

"We're surveilling."

"What are you looking at?"

"The apartment complex on the right. You'll take the one on the left. Focus on the women. Take this," he said, handing her a notebook. "Write down everything that you think is an unusual habit or action. Bottom to top floor, left to right."

She didn't ask anything else, but let out a yawn. He set a cup before her which she drank from and sputtered, "What is this?!"

He brushed some liquid off his shirt, "It is six shots of Espresso mixed with chocolate syrup. I drink it when I am on surveillance. It helps my mind bridge the gaps made by lack of sleep." His cupid's bow popped at the 'p' in sleep. "If you keep spitting at me this might not work after all."

She stared, mouth open, "You made me coffee?"

"No, the barista at Speedy's did. Look, before you spend too much time reading into this-I need my assistants at their highest functioning capacity. You cannot be at that state after a ten hour shift considering that it is near midnight. Consider it part of the pay."

She hoped he was lying, being brisk as usual-so she brought it up to her lips and continued to drink it. Shite, it tasted awful. Never mind-if he had brought it especially for her she was going to drink it. She looked into the binoculars.

"Isn't it strange that none of them have their curtains closed?" She asked.

His lips tightened before he spoke, "No. The bedrooms are built next to the hallway and this is a nine to five office building. None of them have any reason to suspect they are being watched."

She gulped. She lived across from an office building and didn't close her curtains regularly either, the thought hadn't crossed her mind. What if someone had been observing her? If so, she hoped that they hadn't seen that particularly shameful night when she'd killed two bottles of Pinot Grigio in one setting and started dancing with Toby to the soundtrack of South Pacific. She thought about making a crack at the world's only consulting peeping Tom, but thought better of it. In any other circumstance she would feel bad for snooping on other people, but if Sherlock was investigating someone in these buildings, they were probably fairly unscrupulous anyway. After looking at what appeared to be perfectly normally flats and some of their owners, her eyes rested on one woman in particular. She lived alone it seemed, with a dog. Golden Retriever, to be exact. The furniture in the living room was sleek, almost sterile looking. In fact, the whole apartment seemed sterile, the only pops of color being the blue and orange abstracts hanging gallery-style on the wall behind the dining room table. Everything was symmetrical.

The woman was blonde and short, curvy, wearing jeans and an orange jumper. She reached into a brown bag on the counter and pulled out a bottle of what Molly thought was whiskey and proceeded to pour herself a glass. She then put a bag of popcorn in the microwave and carried her glass to the coffee table in the living room, where she turned the telly on. The dog sat patiently in front of her as she sat down and the woman looked around before patting the couch. The dog jumped up and the action made Molly think of how often she sat on the couch at night, stroking Toby. She felt a kinship with this lone woman. When the microwave dinged she got up and took the popcorn out, setting it on the counter. She retreated to the bedroom and emerged a moment later, wearing a nightgown that looked like it had been borrowed from the set of Little House on the Prairie and it clicked. This was who he'd been looking for.

"Sherlock!"

He leaned over, "What?"

"That woman! The one on the fourth floor…fifth in-she can't live there." He moved his binoculars in the direction of the apartment.

"Why not?" He asked.

"Because! Look at what she's wearing!"

"Positively ghastly. What else?"

"She let the dog on the couch. The apartment is meticulous and it's a black couch-would you let a Golden Retriever on a black couch? Look at what she's drinking too-whiskey."

"Maybe she likes whiskey."

"She does, but she doesn't own the apartment."

"What brings you to that conclusion?"

Then she knew he was testing her. He knew that everything she was saying was right, but he wanted to see just how far back her logic went. Eager to prove herself she continued, "Look at the wine rack in the hallway-it's huge…and stocked. She just did everything a normal woman does; goes home, feeds pet, turns the telly on, gets into her pajamas…everything but the favorite drink. The whiskey was in a brown bag on the counter- meaning it's not what she usually drinks. If it were it would've been in the cupboard. I don't care who you are-everyone has a designated place for their standard." She sounded triumphant and Sherlock flashed a brief smile that set her heart pounding.

"Well done, Molly Hooper. I think you will do just fine."

Molly blushed and set her binoculars down. "Is that what you were looking for? A house sitter?"

"Yes. Although it isn't her I'm interested in. Her sister works for the government and I think she intends to steal some plans from the office above her."

"Her sister?"

"Yes. A twin, whose established residence is in Kensington. However- she has been getting mail at a post office box here in Bayswater for at least two months."

"How do you know that?"

He smirked, "This one's not too bright. When John and I saw her getting mail at her regular post, she fumbled for the keys and then had to try both of them in the lock. She was squinting, ergo she'd forgotten her glasses- easy to do because she always wears contacts anyway and, not used to carting them around must have forgotten them at work. She needs them to see close up, which is precisely why she could not see the neighborhood initial stamped on either key. Narrowing down the possible apartment buildings after I knew the initials was really… child's play."

"So why are we here?"

He sighed, "Just when I thought there was hope for you. Think." His voice took on a cold edge during the statement, so much harsher than the excited tone she'd heard a moment before and she involuntarily recoiled.

"You think this is where she plans to bring the plans when she's done with them."

His face softened slightly, "Bingo."

He spun off the desk and grabbed his coat from the back of one the chairs. "Shall we catch a cab? There's an experiment waiting for me at home that should be done just about now." Wordlessly, she nodded. As they left the building the doorman came out of the shadows and Sherlock paid him, bringing his index finger to his lips. The doorman smiled at Molly and handed her a folded piece of paper. Sherlock seemed to not see the paper and looked outside for a cab.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes, Molly."

"That's Dr. Hooper to you." Sherlock said, his tone reminiscent of a block of ice. He successfully hailed a cab and Molly sighed when she looked at the clock inside-almost three in the morning. Her shift would start in five hours and she'd be relying on Red Bull to get her through the day tomorrow, having exhausted her stash of precious Mountain Dew. She knew it was a bad habit-as a doctor she hated energy drinks and knew that they were almost as bad as cigs for the body, but the teenager in her would always love them. Mountain Dew was special because she had her cousin Carl from America send it to her. There was a British version of it, but ingredient restrictions in the U.K. altered the taste to the point that it was no longer satisfying. They were halfway to 221b Baker St. when Sherlock broke her from her reverie.

"What are you thinking?" He asked.

"I'm thinking about America."

Sherlock dropped an eyebrow in a disapproving fashion, "Why on God's earth?"

She smiled and felt mysterious for the first time since she'd met the world's only consulting detective. "Because they have something I want." She shoved her hands into her pockets and felt the piece of paper the doorman had given her. She pulled it out and was about to open it when Sherlock snatched it from her hands.

"Just what I've been looking for. It's like you read my mind Molly." He said, charming smile gracing his face. He proceeded to use it as a wrapper for his nicotine gum.

"I think I'd better stick with the patches, this gum does nothing for me." She looked at him, shocked. "I-I believe that was for me."

"Oh was it? Pity, it would have been quite interesting if you had suddenly developed mind-reading capabilities. Even so you did well enough tonight for a beginner, although you did miss a few important details. Ah, here we are. Goodnight Molly."

He handed her money for the cab. "Night, Sherlock…sleep tight."

"Sleep tight? Why would I want to sleep tight? What does that mean exactly? Have my muscles tensed, sleep with the sheet wrapped taut and tucked in on the sides? What?"

Molly laughed out loud, "F-forget I said anything, Sherlock."

He had a frustrated expression on his face as the cab drove off. She couldn't hear him shout down the street "I don't even sleep when I'm on a case!" Try as she might, Molly couldn't get the image of Sherlock lying in bed with his muscles tensed and sheets wrapped deliciously tight about him out of her head. It was going to be a long day.

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**Love it? Hate it? You know what to do. Thanks for reading!-D. Holland**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: So here's chapter three, sorry it took as long as I said it would. Going at it from Sherlock's POV this chapter. Reviews are always welcome and loved, good or bad, so enjoy! **

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Chapter 3

The world's only consulting detective strode into St. Bart's hospital, past the sick and incompetent and down to the morgue. In her office Molly was sitting on the wrong side of the desk, her back towards the door. Neither she nor her companion turned their backs when he approached. They appeared to be browsing some sort of online fancy dress website on her laptop.

"What do you think? I'm not sure I can pull off a strapless…"

Molly waved her hand, "Oh sure you can, you've got no arm flab."

"I wasn't worried about tha…" The woman spotted Sherlock and stopped talking as Molly turned around as well.

"Hello Sherlock!" She greeted brightly, "This is Agatha Stafford. She and I went to university together. Agatha, this is Sherlock Holmes."

A quick scan told him everything he needed to know about her. She'd had an easy childhood and an even easier career at University, both of which bought by the beauty that some would say she possessed. She didn't appear to be cocky about her looks though, despite her similarities to the Duchess of Cambridge. She was loyal if the tattoo at the base of her neck was anything to judge by-small writing and an emblem of some sort…outgoing, yet considerate. It was something that she normally hid with her hair. Molly seemed to remember something and looked at the floor. She would have undoubtedly told Marie about him because judging by their matching necklaces they had been close friends for at least eight years. She wouldn't have told her about the Christmas party though; no-Molly had enough pride to bar that desperate an action. He'd be nice but brief.

"Agatha, it is a pleasure. Molly-do you have any ear cartilage in the back somewhere?"

"Yes, hang on and I'll fetch it."

"I can come with…" he started to say, but her face stopped him. "It won't take me long."

Molly sped out of the room and Sherlock stood awkwardly by the doorway. He started to look around the office.

"So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes. What are you looking for now?"

He furrowed his brow, "I told her-ear cartilage." His tone was the demeaning tone he always used to keep people from pursuing a conversation, but Agatha smiled back with equal condescension. "No, I didn't mean what are you looking for in this building-I meant what were you looking for in this office? Molly told me about you, how you scan people and rooms as easily as electronic checkouts scan barcodes at a Tesco's."

He resisted a smile. So that's what it looked like to the outside world when he observed. Did Molly say that or was that Agatha's wording? It didn't really matter. He didn't quite know how to answer her question. "Nothing, really. Just a habit."

"What have you observed so far?" She asked, her right eyebrow peaking up. He looked into her eyes, "You and Molly are in the middle of a lunch, only an hour, but that's alright since you work close by. You've gotten together to discuss attire for an upcoming event that you're an integral part of-I would say a wedding, but you have no engagement ring; perhaps you're getting it sized. Molly's had a heavy work week, which is part of the reason she invited you here for lunch. Your necklace doesn't really match the formality of your suit but it is the only jewelry you're wearing so it's obviously for sentimental reasons. It seems too much trouble to go to for only an hour, so you're likely to meet Molly again tonight to discuss this further. One of the fluorescent light bulbs is about to go out and Molly has changed the frames of her diplomas-have you just recently moved into the area?"

"Very good, Mr. Holmes- even better than I expected. I have actually moved down from Edinburgh. And I am getting married. I'd ask you what profession I'm in, but you already know, don't you?"

"No, actually… I'm torn between a teacher and something in advertising."

"Both. I teach advertising at City University."

"You're quite young." The statement was lackluster and meant to fill the time until Molly got back. Where was she?

She uncrossed her knees and looked at him head on, "So's Molly."

It was pointed and discerning, coming from the depths of her loyal soul as a friend. She was apparently very proud of her accomplishments and of Molly's. He heard light footsteps in the hall and smiled at Agatha as Molly strode in. She cast long glances over both him and Marie, as if making sure that neither party had been damaged. So she _had_ told her about the Christmas party after all. Interesting-they were obviously much closer than the fair-weather friendship he had predicted. He didn't know she had been so disturbed by it.

"Here you go," she said, handing him a palm-sized plastic container. Something was different about her. He gave her another look-over: periwinkle cardigan atop white camisole, khakis and trainers. She wasn't wearing her lab coat due to the lunch hour, but it was more a change of demeanor than wardrobe. Her movements were calm and her shoulders weren't tensed like they usually were. And she wasn't stuttering. He took the ear cartilage and slipped it into his coat pocket.

"Thank you. I'll let you return to your lunch."

Agatha held up her hand, "Feel free to stay if you like. I don't mind."

He paused, unsure of how to react to such an invitation. He didn't want to encourage Molly, yet he was intrigued by this friend and the effect she appeared to have on her. Had Molly ever mentioned her? If she had he must have deleted it. He was only working on a seven right now… No. John was meeting Mary for a late lunch and now would be an excellent opportunity to look over her apartment.

"I would, but I'm afraid I have a previous engagement. Perhaps some other time?"

The sentence hung on heavy air and Molly did a double take when she realized he was asking sincerely. "R-right." There was the stutter. Agatha took over, "Yes, we're having dinner Thursday. You and your boyfriend, John-isn't it? You're welcome to join us."

He grimaced-a crafty woman; obviously testing him.

"I'll ask him."

She nodded approvingly as if she'd won some secret argument. Molly's eyebrows fell. Ah, so that's what it was-Agatha had told Molly that he was gay after hearing about the Christmas incident, most likely to boost Molly's confidence. Molly had either denied it or hoped it wasn't true. Smart pathologist either way, but then he'd known that from the day he first met her. He leaned over and kissed Molly on the cheek, "See you then." She looked as baffled as he'd anticipated she would and he reveled in the marvelous duality of it. To Molly it would seem a rather forward, unusually affectionate gesture that would reaffirm her belief that he was at the very least bisexual. She'd mull it over for days in her head, but to Agatha, unused to his normal treatment of Molly, it would seem like a simple goodbye between a woman and her gay friend. It'd be a shock for her when John arrived with Mary. He was looking forward to the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So I know it's been quite awhile since I since I last updated and my only excuse is that I've been indulging my inner Moriarty in my off time. Reviews are always appreciated. **

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Chapter 4

Sherlock hadn't been to the lab since the day Molly and Agatha had had lunch, but he responded to her text to meet them at her and Agatha's favorite pub. It would only be her second time meeting Agatha's fiancé Tom but she liked him so far and hoped that Sherlock wouldn't spoil things between them. She was still stunned that he actually wanted to go to dinner with them. He had to have an ulterior motive, but what that was she couldn't guess. She was still confused by that kiss. The only logical explanation she could think of was that he was indeed gay and that the relief of having it known made him more at ease with her. But that didn't feel quite right.

After the Christmas debacle, she decided to scarcely dress up for this night. She kept on her black slacks and trainers, but made a departure from her normal cardigans by selecting a raspberry colored long sleeve and a black waistcoat from her closet. She wasn't going to put any makeup on, but passed by her hall mirror and saw that her eyeliner needed refreshing. She fed Toby and slipped on her puffa. It had been a long day (elderly obese autopsy, to be frank) and she was looking forward to a nice glass of wine. She was the first to arrive and was glad that she'd taken the time to reserve a table. John Mike's hadn't changed since college.

There were so many memories in the pub- good and bad. It was where she had gone with Agatha every week after they'd graduated before she got that job in Edinburgh. When she'd called to say that she was coming back to London Molly had been more than overjoyed. It seemed that whenever Agatha was around her social life blossomed and she started to care about herself again, to think that she was as incredible as she seemed on paper. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay: it was a more expensive vintage than she preferred, but if Sherlock decided not to be civil it would be worth it in the long run. Agatha and Tom were the next to arrive.

"Molly! Good to see you!" he said, and gave her an eager hug. It was amusing to her. Every single one of Agatha's boyfriends treated her the same way, like they were afraid of losing Agatha by not being close chums with her chums. She gave a small smile, "Hi Tom." She and Agatha gave each other a tight squeeze and sat next to each other, Tom took the seat opposite Agatha. They engaged in not-too-small small talk until Sherlock arrived, looking dashing as usual in one of his suits and a white button up. His top button was undone and she admired the definition of his collarbone. He seemed to notice and gazed directly at her until she spoke.

"Sherlock Holmes, meet Tom Miles, Tom- Sherlock."

Sherlock immediately went about inspecting Tom. Molly felt like closing her eyes tight and not witnessing the verbal onslaught she was sure was coming, but they refused to shut. It was like watching a train wreck-horrible and fascinating at the same time. He appeared to finish and actually smiled.

"Tom, it's a pleasure. Agatha, nice to see you again."

That was it. He closed his mouth. Was he seriously not going to say anything about Tom? Nothing slighting about the grease under his fingernails or the general smell of gas about him? Was he not going to criticize her friend's boyfriend as he had all of hers?

She could tell that Agatha was about to ask a question when John and Mary walked in. She introduced everyone and Agatha looked at her with an accusing expression. John and Mary could barely keep their hands off one another and it was apparent that he had no romantic interest in Sherlock whatsoever. If there was anything Agatha hated, it was being duped, and as she glanced at Sherlock's smirking expression, she knew she had been. Agatha just gave a slight nod, quirked her head to the right and began smirking herself. A chill almost went down Molly's spine.

Agatha was a great friend, but when it came to her friends' happiness, she was ruthless in helping them attain it. She was a true fixer-perhaps the best. Once, Agatha had gotten Molly's favorite band to play in at their college for her birthday. It was a special circumstance of course; her father had died that year and Agatha's father was friends with the band's manager, but it still filled her heart with warmth to think that someone on earth had cared enough to do that for her. Seeing Agatha in action filled her with both admiration and dread- because to Agatha the ends justified every single mean under the sun, including Molly's embarrassment. Looking at Sherlock and his defiant, confident gaze, Molly smiled. Maybe Agatha had met her match at last. Noticing her, Sherlock looked up.

"I had intended to order a scotch, but I feel like something different tonight. Molly, what do you recommend?" After her lengthy pause he grinned and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"They have a nice selection of wines. And if you're in the mood for something mixed-well-it's probably too girly for you…but Mitch does good Cosmos."

Agatha looked agape, "What about your signature?"

Mary perked up, "What signature?"

"Only the best drink ever invented. Molly was the inspiration for it when we were in college."

John looked up from his menu with a somewhat startled expression. She could feel Sherlock's burning stare and a blush began to strike at every millimeter of her face, "It's nothing really. Agatha-how was your class today?"

"What's this drink called? I think I want one." Tom said and Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"The Molly Hallbanger," Agatha breathed dramatically. Tom had taken a sip of water which he chortled and Mary raised her eyebrows, "I'm sorry-did you say the Molly Hallbanger?"

Agatha nodded giddily. Molly wanted to crawl into the lining of her jacket. She focused intensely on Mary, unable to look Sherlock in the eye-eyes! Mary had a somewhat plain look ordinarily, but when she looked mischievous, as she did now, her beauty was extremely enviable.

"What's in it?" Tom asked, unable to stop grinning.

Agatha ran a hand through his light brown hair, "That's a secret even I don' know."

"Well-they say it's always the quiet ones," John quipped after taking a deep breath, "Anyone care for an appetizer? I'm famished."

Molly shot him a look of gratitude for changing the subject and said the spinach dip was rather good. When it came time to order drinks, Sherlock, Tom and Agatha all ordered Molly Hallbangers. Tom and Agatha gushed over its taste, but Sherlock drank his in silence. With John's help she was able to skirt the discussion to other things, jobs mostly. Sherlock was surprisingly smooth, always responding nicely when spoken to but silent for the most part. The night was winding down nicely, with no incidents to mar her memories of it in the future. She was grateful.

Sherlock twirled his glass in his hand, "So Tom, you're a mechanic?"

"You could say that, yes. I'm working at a garage while I get my Business degree."

"What type of business do you plan to go into?"

"I'd actually like to own a garage someday. I love working on cars. It's somewhat juvenile, but it makes me happy. Nothing nearly as adventurous as detective work, I gather. I'm sure you must have some great stories."

John grinned, "Yes. Before I started hanging around Sherlock I never would have thought anyone but royalty could walk around Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet."

Tom guffawed and Agatha exclaimed, "What?"

The beer spoke for Mary, "What-Sherlock underdressed in any manner? You must be talking about the wrong man."

Sherlock stiffened, "John's joking. It wasn't the real Buckingham Palace, just a set for a play in the country."

John went on with a light slur, "Oh no-I assure you it happened in the heart of London."

Sherlock stiffened, "John, you've had too much to drink."

John, suddenly realizing Sherlock's want for discretion winked at him and said in a vague tone, "Oh. You're right. It was in the country."

"Was it the Queen's birthday?" Molly blurted out, unable to stop herself. Everyone at the table- with the exception of Sherlock- burst into laughter. She must have been dreaming but for a moment she could have sworn he grinned. What had he been doing in a sheet in Buckingham Palace? She smiled as she thought of the possibilities and then sobered as she thought of his identifying Irene Adler. She looked up at him. He met her gaze with a blank stare. Locked out again. She sighed and told herself that it was time she quit daydreaming and realized that he would never want her the way she wanted him. He would never fantasize about her roaming the confines of Buckingham wrapped in nothing but ridiculously soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Conversation around the table continued, but Molly's dwellings made her somber and she walked to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila.

"Molly?"

She looked up after downing the shot, "Yeah?"

"What's wrong love?"

"Everything I feared and nothing I didn't expect, Mitch. I'd tell you all about it, but you look busy."

The pub was packed, as it usually was after seven. He gave her a quick sympathetic smile, reached a hand out and told her to call him when she got home. Mitch was great that way. Being a good listener wasn't just the job description for him- he really lived it. It was rare to come across someone so caring in a city. She glanced back at the table. Everyone was still seated except Sherlock. She felt a tapping on her shoulder.

"I've received a text from Lestrade. There's a case which requires our presence. I've made our apologies to Agatha and John."

She blinked hard. "Why don't you take John?"

He sighed, seeming angry at having to explain something so obviously simple, "You've seen John. He isn't in serviceable condition. You, however, hardened by continuous nights of drinking away your loneliness are less prone to the lack of consciousness induced by alcohol."

Her mouth was open, how could he do that? Go from being completely polite and gentlemanly to being such an absolute prat? Didn't he realize that he was the reason for her loneliness? That no one would do after she had seen him in the morgue that first day? The man had no kindness, not in the way it really counted. Did it matter? She began to wonder if she could ever hate him enough to let him go. The answer her brain shouted back didn't surprise her. So she didn't answer him, but merely walked out the door and raised her hand to hail a cab. He followed her out the door and gave the address of 9807 Philus Court to the cabbie.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock appeared to ignore her existence. Which was fine, she decided. While it was utterly useless to expect him to ever reciprocate her feelings, she had work to do and she was determined to do a damn fine job of it. He could permeate the very essence of her brain, but he would not affect her work ethic. Outside the cab, the lights dimmed as they traveled from inner-city to the suburbs. Molly could feel her ponytail slipping. Tugging at the fountain of hair, she tried to wriggle it free, but the band seemed to be stuck. After approximately five minutes of fighting with it, she sighed and gave up. Who cared if her hair looked stupid after all? It wasn't as if she was going to meet anyone at a crime scene who'd notice the hair of the living this late in the day. She was about to sit back in her seat when she felt Sherlock's hands on her head.

"Hold still."

"W-what are you doing, Sherlock?"

He sighed, "I should think it's obvious. Your hair obviously tangled around your band and I can't have you representing me looking so disheveled. People would liken our relationship to Sally and Anderson's."

Molly had heard John talk about Sally and Anderson before, more specifically about their affair. "No they wouldn't."

His fingers worked gently and she soon felt her hair unfurl from the band as he pulled it out. He held it up, examining it as if it were some exotic species of beetle. Again silence ensued.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Why wouldn't they what?"

"Assume our relationship was similar to that of Sally and Anderson's if you showed up with your hair pulled loose and me with you?"

Molly pulled out a pocket mirror from her purse and began to rearrange her hair. "Because you aren't that sort, Sherlock. Also because for a physical relationship to work, there has to be mutual attraction and there obviously isn't that in our case. I mean, let's face it- the only reason you kissed me at St. Bart's was to toy with Agatha's mind."

"Why?"

"Because you like to manipulate people-we both know that, so why ask?

"No, that wasn't the question. How are you, sentimental mousy Molly Hooper, able to discuss the situation so frankly? It doesn't correlate to your emotional nature and you can't be that hardened by alcohol."

"Because I have a job to do. I take pride in a job well done."

"I've always known that about you, it's why I like working with you, but you've never made emotions a non-issue before."

She took a deep breath. "Did you ever read Jane Eyre, Sherlock? In school, perhaps?"

"What a silly question. I don't remember. Why?"

"Just trying to illustrate a point, that's all. Forget about it."

"As much as I run the risk of you providing me a gushy synopsis of the plot, we have another fifteen minutes in this traffic and I'm bored; go on."

Molly yawned, "I won't bore you. It's a story about a woman who struggled to find love on equal terms. She assumed that there always had to be a sacrifice made to receive it. I used to think that way, that to get love or respect you had to give something more of yourself, but I was wrong. I didn't even realize it until Agatha came back, but I've wasted a lot of time thinking that way and I'm done with it."

It was a lie of course, though not a full one. She did feel more self-confident with Agatha around, but she would always give freely of herself, no matter the cost.

"I see. Well, it's a commendable change in attitude. I believe I vaguely recall being forced to suffer the pages-was that the one with Mr. Darcy?"

"No, that was Pride and Prejudice. I don't think Mr. Darcy is equal to Mr. Rochester."

He cocked an eyebrow, "Rochester is the hero of Jane Eyre?"

"More of an anti-hero actually."

"Then how do you find him to be superior? I was led to believe that all literarily-minded women judged modern men against Mr. Darcy."

"Not this one. Mr. Rochester is…more realistic, I think. He's flawed and willing to take drastic measures, to… bridge the gap when he doesn't get what he wants. He can change his technique and he smacks a bit of immaturity and fun, while Mr. Darcy strikes me as comparatively passive. I don't think it's fair to say that Mr. Darcy is deeply flawed either-just solemn, proud, and quietly motivated."

"Why do you prefer flawed men?"

"All men are flawed."

He smirked, "Not to the degree that appeals to you, lest we forget John Maherne-the sandwich delivery man whose reliance on pick-up websites had him pretending to be a partner in an eco-friendly takeaway supply company? Or Scott Travers, the Scottish backpacker who couchsurfed his way into your confidence? And can we really leave Roy Trenneman from the basement of Reynholm Industries out?"

She tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't. They had been terrible.

"Or Jim from I.T."

It was a quick, rather quiet addition, but it cut across her heart like knives on a cutting board. It was the first time he had mentioned anything related to Jim. After Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death, he had never talked about the incident since. She was so happy to have him back safely that she could only respect his wishes to not revisit the memory. But she did revisit it, privately, every night when she was alone again. She didn't want to forget about it, or pretend that it never happened as John had. She didn't want to forget that Sherlock had turned to her in his time of need over anyone else. Didn't want to forget the implication that he trusted her, even when she had dated his nemesis, and she couldn't forget him saying that she mattered, because either it was really true or it was a lie she needed in order to cope. It took all her strength to keep on subject.

"I didn't know that he was gay. Or a criminal mastermind. He seemed normal to me on the surface, I didn't go looking for 'gay and psychotic' on purpose. I suppose that if I did sense his flaws subconsciously, they made me feel better about my own."

Sherlock looked ready to speak, but paused for a moment before continuing, "You mean the incessant babbling and stuttering-the latter of which has dissipated recently."

She waited for him to add small breasts to the list, but he didn't. "Among other things. I suppose that they're all comparatively small in the shadow of your ego, though."

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched in the middle of his forehead momentarily before resuming their original position. "It's not an ego, though it would be if I weren't as apparently good as I am at my job."

"Is it a job, really? I always thought it ran more along the lines of a hobby that paid."

A right corner of his mouth lifted and she saw that she had hit her mark, "Aha."

As quickly as he'd looked down to examine the taxi's floor mats he looked up again, his eyes piercing into hers.

"You could say the same thing about yourself. You wouldn't do your job if you didn't get some pleasure from it. I suppose that you would own a baker's shop and run frequent volunteer missions to impoverished countries if you weren't so content with dead bodies."

"Who said I liked to bake?"

He was silent for a moment. "You own a cat and wear sweaters with granny-like cherries on them…why wouldn't you bake?"

"You have to have skill to bake, and I've none. No matter how hard I try I always cock it up, so why put myself through the disappointment? Tha-" She stopped mid-word, realization hitting her.

"Oh, for the love of chips, finish your sentence." The voice was meant to sound irritated, she knew, but it came off as somewhat pensive. A sly grin spread across her face.

"That's not it though, is it? You, Sherlock Holmes, made an assumption about me…a wrong assumption."

He sighed, "Yes, well no one's perfect."

A weight lifted in her mind. He didn't know everything about her after all. She felt like Molly Hallbanger again, a little mystery still out of view from the world at large. She began to feel a return of her strength. Did he assume she baked because he disdained baking or because he would want her to be the sort of person to bake? The smile on her face widened even further and she could practically feel her eyes twinkle as she was the one deducing now. Sherlock observed the change, eyes narrowing.

"Ah, you're wondering what else I don't know about you. What else I'm wrong about. You're reveling in the notion that you maintain some anonymity from me. Well, enjoy your delusions of safety all you like, but the fact is, Molly Hooper, I know you."

The intensity of his stare and statement melted her mettle, but her eyes betrayed her challenge, prove it. He smirked merrily, enjoying the prospect of the challenge, she could see. He hiked up his coat collar, though the necessity of such a gesture, apart from the attractiveness of it, eluded her, and settled into his seat.

"You were born in Essex, I would say Clacton-on-Sea or thereabouts. Your middle name is Eve, though you try to keep that fact hidden. You christened your cat Toby as in Toby Balding, the racehorse trainer, because you like the races, but more specifically, gambling. You have a tattoo, probably acquired in your uni years. You're fond of the color orange but you never wear it because it washes you out, similar to Mrs. Hudson's aversion to cerise. Your first boyfriend was from Ireland, I'm guessing a summer fling. You used to bite your nails, but you outgrew the habit when you started your career and now bite your lip instead. I mistook your entrée cooking, which you sometimes do for your neighbor, for baking. That thing you said the Americans had that you wanted the night we surveiled the Brighton Building-it was Mountain Dew. Your measurements, though hard to discern from the clothes you wear, are 34-30-39."

She didn't pause to wonder how he knew those things about her, merely raised her defense, "D-do you know John's measurements as well?"

"Of course."

"Where did you tell him we were going? He wouldn't have stayed at the pub if he'd known you had a case."

"The morgue, of course." He said, pressing his outstretched hands together and running his fingertips vertically along his chin.

"You don't know that I have a tattoo- at least you're not certain."

His eyebrows dropped, "Of course I am."

She smiled, "Are you now?"

He started, but said nothing. The cab pulled up to their destination, where flashing police lights broke the tranquility of the night sky. Molly felt a rush of excitement: so often in the morgue, she had wondered what the dead saw just before they died, what their surroundings were. Surveying the scene from within the warm car, she asked the question that perhaps she should have asked at the bar, "What's the case?"


End file.
